


A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words

by Shippaddict



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Blindness, Dodgy science, M/M, Mention of Self Experimentation, Monsters, Piracy, Pre-Slash, Would You Smooch A Reptile, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 07:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5859694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shippaddict/pseuds/Shippaddict
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he really was dead, he was killed by someone – if the stories were truly honest, something – who was arguably mythical. If he had truly washed ashore upon the Miracle Archipelago, well, it only made sense that he was dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words

Takao stared uncomprehendingly upwards. Something was speaking, was he underwater? He could feel the sun on his face and chest, the bright glow against his eyelids.  
“A trespasser is a rare sight in autumn. Now tell me, before you’re terminated properly, are you exceptionally brave, or exceptionally stupid?” Takao felt a hand rested on his throat. Grip only forceful enough to feel his breath. “Whatever tried to kill you clearly didn’t try very hard. Maybe you’re just stubborn.” Takao wheezed a humourless chuckle. He didn’t have it in him to move yet.  
“Ju-uuuh.” Takao spluttered. “Just stubborn.” He felt another hand brushing his forehead.  
“You’ve still got quite a ways to death’s doorstep; stubborn indeed.” Takao almost wanted to laugh. He was alive! And apparently for the foreseeable future too. Maybe this man was a doctor; maybe they could find the rest of the crew, maybe they could -! “I should at least introduce myself before I wipe you from my island shouldn’t I? My name is Midorima Shintarou.” The foreseeable future was much shorter than initially imagined. The grip on his throat began to tighten, he still couldn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t imagine the face of his killer.  
Takao felt his chest hollow, his heart pound, his head spin. He opened his eyes. His eyes were streaming with tears; face a deep and foreboding red. He saw himself beginning to die. Midorima sprang away from him gasping.  
“What the hell was that?” Takao desperately tried to latch on to a nearby seagull, anything. “What are you?” Takao sobbed slightly as he heard the fury in Midorima’s voice; gruff and ragged around the edges. He heard something rake across the sand. He sobbed again, his chest heaving and sore. Midorima snaked a stiff hand around Takao’s jaw and jerked his head back. Takao trembled in the vice like grip. He wasn’t willing to look again.  
“I can’t see.” He hiccupped as Midorima threw his head to the side. “I can’t fight back.” Takao curled his fingers against the sand.  
“Then you should be perfectly easy to kill.” He needed a weapon; if he wanted to live then he needed one now, but there was nothing within reach. Half remembered bar fights flooded his mind and he drew the arm he could move off of the sand. “Now be good, and stay still.” He could only guess where Midorima’s head was, but he swung his arm up in the rough shape of a claw. Midorima screeched as Takao’s nails caught his cheek. Midorima slammed him to the sand with an enraged cry.  
Takao had always loved the sea. He had always loved the work – piracy was so much more rewarding than the navy would have anyone believe. He had been in swordfights galore, had drank his fill in every seedy bar under the red sun, had kissed a thousand beauties each more enchanting than the last. (He fondly recalled an older man with smooth skin and wonderful sharp eyes and an unstoppable penchant for puns. He had never met anyone else who so freely shared all that he saw.) For someone like himself there was never really meant to be much hope. Maybe as a beggar. The tale of Blind Hugh and Foul ol’ Ron however famous was not particularly inspirational.  
Takao wasn’t sure how no-one before Miyaji really noticed. He could admit perhaps he wasn’t the best to comment on the visually obvious but he had hoped his crows appeared smarter than they looked. Miyaji was always some level of furious. Like a pot left to simmer on his good days. Not very loud, not very pronounced but certainly scathing to the touch. Of course he would be able to spot the same crow – to spot it in the flock. It had been following him for days. He had also noticed when Takao had stopped looking at him. The blind panic of the previously still bird wasn’t exactly subtle. Despite the nature of his sight, subtlety was not a strength of Takao’s.  
Ootsubo was shockingly less observant- an unsettlingly un-captain like quality. Ootsubo however was very concerned with Miyaji and his perceived paranoia. Kimura was aware of Takao’s frequent presence in the town. He had given him a few coins once; Takao briefly considered telling him the truth after that, but free breakfast is free breakfast. It was a thrilling fortnight of surveillance before Takao was able to board their ship. Nakatani was the first to discover their stowaway. It was baffling that it took anyone three days to check the crow’s nest. It was also apparently baffling that a blind man had stumbled his way into the crow’s nest.  
Takao’s head felt suddenly very heavy, an unsettlingly familiar sensation. He couldn’t open his eyes once again. He feared for a moment that he was dead, but that was silly. He’d personally like to think that if he died he’d be able to see. Just once on his own. If he was dead he could at least somewhat remember his killer. Midorima's hands were bony, adorned with thin, ridged fingers. The left hand, which was presumably in more damnable condition, was painstakingly taped. He was killed by someone – if the stories were truly honest, something – who was arguably mythical.  
The good doctor Midorima Shintarou was a deep dark bed time story. Though if he was truly in the presence of such a man, Takao thought briefly that he should reconsider his definition of mythical. The entirety of the miracle archipelago was uncharted. Most likely it would remain entirely unexplored for the rest of Takao's lifetime. The Miracle archipelago was the kingdom of the beastly emperor. Half man, half monster. In the fables, all of its inhabitants shared the same godless composition. Midorima was certainly part something. If they had made it, if they had outrun the navy, if Takao had really washed ashore in the Miracle archipelago. Well, it only made sense that he was dead.  
“I see you’re finally awake. I hope you don’t mind the straps. I didn’t feel up to being struck again.” Takao whined loudly, he couldn’t even feel his arms. Midorima had heavy footsteps as he crossed the room. The floor was hard, his shoes clicked like horses hooves. For all Takao knew they could be hooves. He wondered briefly how the logistics of that would work, all that hair. Goat legs. “I would prefer if you listened when I spoke.” Takao groaned very loudly. He shuffled his hip against whatever he was strapped to. Probably something metal. The cold was creeping upwards. "What did you see - inside my head, what was it you saw?" Midorima had a smooth voice, deep. The kind of thing and well read man, or woman if the talk about the Touou army was true, could wax poetic about. Takao didn’t really do that much reading but he thought about honey and wine. Mead without the bitter burn.  
“I can only see what’s before me.” Midorima let out a ragged breath.  
Takao wondered what he looked like strapped to the table. If he was injured he wanted to know. Maybe he’d call Midorima over the next time he click-clacked within Takao’s vicinity, he’d ask or something.  
He forgot to ask.  
He felt the hands against his face before he saw them. He had never experienced this delay before, this backlash from sight before. Midorima stumbled from the shock, whipping his head wildly until he found purchase on the wall. He curled into himself and Takao was faced with the aged floor.  
“What did you do?!” Midorimas hand, warped and tightly bound rubs harshly against his face.  
“You can’t see...” This hadn’t ever happened before either. The relationship of sharing was never so overpowering on another person. With his former lover, both could see his wide field of vision equally. It was like having eyes of his own. With the crows it was so overwhelming that he controlled them entirely.  
“No I can’t. Whatever this is stop it at once!” Midorima’s head snaps upwards. There is a window in the small room; the glass is green, warbled. It’s only just flat enough for Midorima’s reflection to be discernible. Midorima was pretty; he was tall and intricately structured. His eyelashes are thick and his nose straight. He was terrified. Takao gasped and Midorima’s head whipped towards him. In a split second of hesitation Takao saw in complete clarity, he was furious.  
Midorima closed in and sharp fingers forced Takao’s eyes closed.  
“I swear to god if you are the puppeteer in all of this Akashi, I’ll -!” Midorima fisted a hand in Takao’s hair, but let go almost immediately. The sudden outburst ended just as quickly as it began. “No, no. You’re not him, are you? No, you’re not him.” Takao swallowed down tears threatening to breach the surface. “He’s miles away.” In comparison Takao was harmless. He didn’t need to be restrained.  
Midorima and Takao, Takao and Midorima. The only two people for miles around. Takao wondered if shuutoku was still afloat, if his friends were still alive. Midorima had been completely apathetic when he said that Takao and he were entirely alone. How long had Midorima been alone? Takao has catalogued a series of gentle touches in the forefront of his mind. Small brushes of skin against flesh. He has concluded that Midorima definitely isn't fully human. His hands are bird like - his left bordering on reptilian - clawed. The right has a clear seam where the skin changes. His hair was thick but greasy. If he didn’t know any better he’d say it was green: that brief glimpse in the glass however memorable was hardly suitable evidence.  
Saying Midorima couldn’t have been more surprised when Takao asked him if he could help him shave, was the understatement of the century. Takao had seen him. Takao had seen all that he had done to himself; research his younger self had called it. Beautiful he had once been called – in regards to his self mutilation – by his former master. He was wiser now; he never practiced on himself anymore. As a wives tale he had received more visitors than he ever had as a physician.  
“Are you sure this is a wise request? I doubt that I am the most trustworthy barber.” He gently fingered the straight razor in his palm.  
“Well I’ve never gone in blind before. Shocking right?” Takao laughed a little nervously. He had a nice voice. One of Midorima’s ears twitched.  
“How do you know that I won’t just make a clean cut across your throat? I’m sure that with enough study I could keep your head sentient in a jar.” Takao’s laugh is a little less mirthless this time.  
“I’m sure you could, but who would stumble around your house and tell you bad jokes if my head’s in a jar? I mean you wouldn’t want to waste this first class eye candy would’ya?” Midorima would waste a single inch of Takao’s flesh. He has lovely hands. He would cut them off just below the elbow and keep them perfectly preserved for future admiration. He could use the bone marrow too. Takao even has perfect feet. He knows he wouldn’t dare use Takao for any of his experiments. He knows that those visceral thoughts don’t belong to him. All of Takao is beautiful. So differently from the way he had once been lead to believe himself to be.  
“My goodness yes, what would I do without the layabout who walks into all my doors?” he rolls his eyes. When Takao attempts to clap him on the shoulder and instead pats the protruding oddness of his jaw he swats his hand away. “Die.” To which Takao trembles with laughter.  
Midorima’s rough hands rove over the smoothness of Takao’s own face. The bruises of those weeks ago have faded but he feels a phantom of pain regarding where they used to be. Midorima grabs his brush and his shaving foam and sets to work. The movements of his hands are slow and methodical, unorthodox in only their unanticipated gentleness. This does nothing to ease the erratic thundering of Takao’s heart against his ribs. The bandaged hand brushes his hair from his face.  
“Should I cut this too?” The hair is smooth and dark and oh so normal. Midorima wants to brush it against his own face. The problem with becoming a monster is the consequent fixation on normality. He thinks it’s the contrast.  
“If you wouldn’t mind.” Takao daren’t swallow the saliva filling his mouth as he feels the cool edge of razor against his throat. “Thank you.” He feels what he believes to be the left most of Midorima’s right thumbs swipe against the corner of his mouth.  
“Don’t drool it’s unsightly.” Takao smirked after he swallowed. He felt considerably safer in Midorima’s arms than he had upon his arrival.


End file.
